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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22923040">Improv</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker'>Winklepicker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sevsmith Stories [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ex Machina (2015), Kylux adjacents - Fandom, Midnight Special (2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Hurt/Comfort, M/M, kylux adjacent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:07:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22923040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Paul Sevier/Caleb Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sevsmith Stories [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263572</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Improv</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t that Caleb was afraid. Not exactly. Sophia didn’t  remotely come close to the technology of Ava. But that strange uncanny face over that mechanical head flipped a switch inside Caleb he’d being trying to keep firmly switched off. </p>
<p>That was a part of him he liked to keep locked away in the dark where it could decay and fester and be forgotten. Now here he was with his head between his knees. A string of spit hung from his lips, there was bile in his mouth, vomit in his nose, and blood on his fist. That is how Paul found him, sitting beneath the broken television.</p>
<p>Kneeling, he took Caleb’s quaking hands in his and held them. One each clasped safe and tight in his big hands.</p>
<p>“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Caleb smiled. He ought to have known by then that Paul was no fool.</p>
<p>Paul raised one eyebrow, a skill Caleb envied. He stood and gently pull-coaxed Caleb after him. “C’mon,” he murmured. </p>
<p>Paul didn’t whisper. Whispering carried. Whispering was a nasty business, sibilant, loud. Paul murmured, gentle, quiet, soothing. </p>
<p>He turned Caleb about and he marched them to their tiny bathroom, his hands half-circling Caleb’s waist from behind. </p>
<p>Like players in an improv team, Paul wriggled his arms beneath Caleb’s and loaded his toothbrush with paste. He brought it to Caleb’s mouth and began to brush. </p>
<p>That the mirror was left with an explosion of toothpaste after Caleb burst out laughing did not deplete the romantic moment.</p>
<p>Cleaned and brushed, nose blown like a toddler, Caleb beamed at mirror-Paul who was wrapped around him, chin resting on his shoulder</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he said.</p>
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